Pretty Little War

(The ghost)

The girl I was died so the woman I am could survive. I didn’t bury her; I cremated her and used the ashes to paint my war-paint.

._________________________.

The tree was a skeletal titan, its gnarled branches clawing at a bruised, purple sky. It looked like something out of a gothic fever dream—a dark, twisted version of a childhood fairy tale where the beanstalk didn’t lead to gold, but to a shallow grave. It was beautiful. It was terrifying. It was exactly where I wanted to—

“Lisha?”

The tree didn’t just whisper my name; it screamed it.

“Miss Lisha?!”

THUD.

The sound of a heavy palm hitting my metal desk vibrated through my bones, shattering the dark forest of my mind. The Scottish mist evaporated, replaced by the sterile, fluorescent hum of the military intelligence unit.

“Officer Lisha, are you joining the rest of us in the real world today, or should I book you a room at a psychiatric ward?”

I blinked, my vision clearing to find Sergeant Mark looming over me. His face was a map of scars and old grudges, and right now, I was the primary target.

“No, sir. Sorry, Sergeant,” I said, my voice snapping into that low, controlled tone I’d spent years perfecting. “I was... analyzing the screen. I haven’t slept. I was finishing an essay for my Media finals.”

Mark narrowed his eyes, his shadow falling over my keyboard. “Media Science and Military Intelligence. A dangerous combination, Lisha. You spend too much time looking at screens, you’ll forget how to look over your shoulder. Keep your eyes open. In this field, the enemy doesn’t wait for you to finish your daydreaming before they strike. You get me?”

“Yes, Sir!” I barked back.

He lingered for a second, then grunted and walked away. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. Being a Media Studies student by day and an Army Officer by night was a special kind of hell. It was an endless cycle of screen time, propaganda analysis, and psychological profiling. But at least I was something. At least I wasn’t the girl who let herself be destroyed.

I ran a hand through my hair, feeling the phantom weight of my leather jacket even though I was in uniform. I was a woman of my dreams now, but the dreams still felt like nightmares.

🎖

The walk to the parking lot was the only time I felt the two halves of my soul collide. I shed the camouflage of the Army for the camouflage of the night.

Ten minutes later, I was back in my flat. It was a minimalist, cold space—mostly shadows and stacks of books on media theory and dark poetry. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t need them. I knew the topography of my loneliness by heart.

I stripped off the uniform, letting the heavy fabric pool on the floor like a discarded skin. For a moment, I just sat on the edge of the bed, let my head hang, and allowed the “rot” to set in. This was the part of the day I hated most—the silence. It was too loud.

I reached for my phone, fingers hovering over the play button. Reflections by The Neighbourhood began to bleed through the speakers.

“Where have you been? Do you know when you’re coming back?”

“Never,” I whispered to the empty room. “She’s never coming back.”

I stood up and walked into the bathroom, the cold tiles biting at my bare feet. This was the mirror you asked about—the one that told the truth. I leaned over the sink, staring into my own eyes. They were hollow, dark circles framing a gaze that had seen too much for a twenty-two-year-old. I looked like a beautiful ruin.

I picked up my mascara, my hand steady despite the ache in my chest. If I was going to be a ghost, I was going to be a sharp one.

BRRR-BRRR.

My phone buzzed against the marble counter, vibrating in sync with the bass of the song. I didn’t even have to look to know who it was. Sofia. The only person who still dared to knock on the door of my life.

I picked up on the third ring. “I’m tired, Sof. Don’t.”

“Lisha! Don’t you ‘Don’t’ me,” Sofia’s voice was a burst of neon light against my dark mood. “It’s my grandfather’s estate. It’s gothic, it’s creepy, it’s literally your entire personality in building form. There’s a dinner party, there’s expensive wine, and there is a seat with your name on it.”

“I’m rotting, Sof. Respect the process.”

“You can rot in a leather jacket at a farmhouse,” Sofia countered, her tone shifting from playful to firm. “One hour. I’ll even let you stay in the shadows and judge everyone. But if you don’t show up, I’m calling your commanding officer and telling him you’re moonlighting as a moody poet.”

I sighed, a long, jagged sound. “Fine. One hour.”

“Wear the jacket, Lish. The one that makes you look like you kill people for fun. See you at eight!”

The line went dead. I looked back at the mirror.

I didn’t just wear the jacket; I zips it up like a bulletproof vest. Black jeans, boots that could break a jaw, and a layer of defiance that took years to build. I grabbed my helmet, hit the throttle of my bike in the garage, and let the roar of the engine swallow the song.

I was riding toward a gothic farmhouse, thinking I was just going to a party. I didn’t know I was riding toward a collision with the one person who knew exactly how to break my armor.

🎖

The road to the estate was a winding ribbon of black asphalt cut through the Scottish mist. Every twist of the throttle felt like a middle finger to the anxiety clawing at my throat. The cold air bit at the small patch of skin exposed between my helmet and my leather collar, a sharp reminder that I was alive, even if I felt like a walking shadow.

Then, the farmhouse appeared.

It wasn’t a “farmhouse” in the way normal people used the word. It was a stone titan—a sprawling, gothic manor with ivy climbing the walls like skeletal fingers and narrow, arched windows that leaked amber light into the fog. It looked exactly like the “Jack and Jill” nightmare I’d daydreamed about at my desk.

I parked my bike at the end of a row of polished SUVs and German sedans. My matte-black Ducati looked like a predator among sheep.

I pulled off my helmet, my hair falling in messy, dark waves over my shoulders. I took a breath, centered my weight, and fixed my “Officer” expression into place. Jaw tight. Eyes dead. Posture perfect.

The heavy oak doors were propped open, spilling the sounds of clinking glass and forced laughter into the night. I stepped inside, and the warmth hit me like a physical blow. The interior was all velvet shadows and flickering candelabras—Sofia’s grandfather clearly had a flair for the macabre.

“Lish! You actually came!” Sofia appeared out of a swarm of people, wearing something silk and expensive that made me feel even more like a stray cat in a palace. She grabbed my arm, her eyes scanning my face. “You look... wow. You look like you’re about to start a revolution.”

“I look like I want to leave, Sofia,” I muttered, my eyes already scanning the room for the nearest exit. It was a military habit; never enter a room without knowing how to get out.

“Not yet. Come on, you have to meet Leo’s friends. They’re all ‘high-society’ types, but some of them are actually bearable.”

She pulled me toward a group standing near a massive stone fireplace. I felt the familiar prickle of social anxiety, the “softie” inside me wanting to run back to my bed and my music. But then, the air changed.

The smell hit me first.

Sandalwood. Expensive tobacco. And a hint of something metallic that I’d spent three years trying to wash out of my skin.

My heart didn’t just beat; it slammed against my ribs. My “Army Officer” instincts screamed Danger, but my body was already betraying me. I froze.

Across the circle, leaning against the mantle with a glass of scotch in his hand, was Ethan.

He looked exactly the same. The same effortless, cruel charm. The same way his eyes crinkled when he told a lie. He was laughing at something Leo said, looking like the golden boy of the party.

Then, as if he felt the temperature in the room drop, he turned.

His gaze locked onto mine. There was no shock in his eyes. Only a slow, predatory recognition. This was the man who had turned my love into a cage. The man who had forced me to hide in the dark for years.

He didn’t say my name. He didn’t have to. He just tilted his glass toward me in a silent, mocking toast.

“Lisha?” Sofia asked, her hand tightening on my arm. “Are you okay? Your hand is shaking.”

I looked down. My fingers were trembling—the “softie” was losing. I took a sharp breath, forced my hand into a fist, and looked Ethan straight in the eye.

“I’m fine,” I lied, my voice like ice. “I just realized I’m in the wrong room.”

🎖

Ethan didn’t wait for me to come to him. He moved through the crowd with a casual, liquid grace that made my stomach turn. Every step he took toward me felt like a countdown to a bomb.

Sofia got pulled away by a waiter, leaving me standing alone at the edge of the firelight. I stood my ground, my spine like a steel rod, my chin tilted just high enough to show him I wasn’t that nineteen-year-old girl anymore. On the outside, I was Officer Lisha—unbreakable, lethal, cold.

On the inside, I was screaming.

He stopped just inches from me, close enough that the scent of his cologne felt like a physical weight on my chest. He looked me up and down, a slow, filthy smirk spreading across his face.

“Lisha,” he said, his voice a low purr that made my skin crawl. “I have to say, the uniform—or whatever this biker-rebel look is—suits you. I can’t believe nobody here knows the deal between you and me. All these people, and they have no idea what’s actually under that leather.”

“Leave, Ethan,” I said, my voice barely a whisper, but sharp enough to cut. “Before I make you leave.”

He chuckled, a dry, mocking sound. He stepped even closer, his eyes dancing with a sick kind of amusement. “Oh, you’re a big girl now? So tough. But we both know you’re still the same soft little thing who cried in my bed.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear. I felt the heat of his breath, and it felt like a brand.

“I’ll tell you what,” he whispered. “If you play nice tonight, maybe I won’t cheat on you this time. I mean, look at you... you’ve actually gotten hot. Maybe you’re finally worth keeping a secret for.”

He pulled back, his eyes searching mine for the break. He wanted to see the “softie” cry. He wanted to see the Army Officer crumble.

I didn’t give it to him. I looked him dead in the eye, my face a mask of absolute granite, even as my heart felt like it was being shredded behind my ribs.

“You haven’t changed, Ethan,” I said, my voice finally steady. “But I have. And the next time you touch me, you’ll find out exactly what they teach us in the military about neutralizing a threat.”

Ethan’s smirk didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed. He took a slow sip of his scotch, never breaking eye contact. “We’ll see about that, Lish. The night is young.”

He turned and walked back toward Leo, leaving me standing in the shadows of the gothic manor. My hands were balled into fists so tight my nails were drawing blood from my palms.

I needed air. I needed my bike. And more than anything, I needed to make sure that the secret we shared stayed buried—even if I had to bury him with it.

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